June is Black Music Month, when we celebrate our heroes and sheroes whose lyrics, rhythms, melodies, and sonic brilliance have provided the ultimate soundtrack for some of the most pivotal moments in our lives and left an indelible mark on both American and international popular culture. “Black music” is such an expansive category, covering so much artistic and cultural terrain, that it is difficult to nail down just what black music truly is. Countless literary pieces have been penned on the subject of black music and it’s cultural impact: LeRoy Jones’ Blues People; Angela Y. Davis’ Blues Legacies and Black Feminism; Maureen Mahon’s Right to Rock; and Touré’s SoulCity, to name a few. As we mark this year’s Black Music Month observance, it is worth pondering what the future of black music has in store. More importantly, considering the state of black music, does this quintessential art form have a future at all?

A group of friends—comprised of both musicians and music aficionados—and I tossed this question around recently. Admittedly, each of us considers ourselves slightly outside the mainstream when it comes to our musical tastes; we are a group whose CD changers are more likely to contain discs by black (and other) artists whose names and sounds are less ubiquitous than those favored by urban contemporary radio and music video programs. Over tater tots, beer, and iced tea, we debated with passion and gusto the relevance of black music today, citing the dismal quality of what is offered to the masses and doubting whether any significant shift would occur in the foreseeable future. This is not to suggest that popular hip hop and R&B music, and the artists who create it, lack cultural relevance or significance. The preeminence of hip hop in particular as a global force is proof that there is an international and cross-cultural audience for it. Our argument, though, was that there seemed to be less and less space set aside for black music by black musicians who do not fit so snuggly into the absurdly narrow definition of black music.

One of the subjects that arose during our talk was the fact that many non-mainstream black music acts suffer from lack of support from black radio and black audiences in general. Recently I attended a concert featuring Heather Headley and Anthony Hamilton with Van Hunt as the opening act. I was not surprised at all when Hunt, whose 2004 eponymous, Grammy-nominated debut and 2006 follow-up, “On the Jungle Floor”, won major international critical acclaim with virtually no assistance from radio spins or video play, took to the stage before a less than enthusiastic crowd. For all my shouting, screaming, and “woo-hooing”, it wasn’t until the last song of his set, “Seconds of Pleasure”—which was featured in the film “Something New”—that the rest of the audience finally connected with Hunt. Was it because his sound was more rock and funk than straight R&B? And if so, what does that mean for the hundreds of African American musicians, singers, songwriters, and producers who strive for a less homogeneous sound, in favor of one of greater richness and variety? What does it mean for audiences who crave music that offers more substance—music that perhaps pays greater tribute to yesterday’s pioneers and will linger longer in our collective consciousness than the very temporal (and temporary) club bangers that proliferate the sound scape today? Why is it that, despite their more than admirable showings throughout their careers, African American artists like Ben Harper, Lenny Kravitz, Tracy Chapman, and MeShell NdegéOcello still have not found a place within mainstream black music? Were it not for their predominantly white and “alternative” black followings, these artists and those like them may still be playing local coffeehouses, instead of sold-out stadiums.

If it is true that there is an audience for everything, then I posit that it is time to expand the boundaries of black music to include a broader sampling of what black artists are creating. For every Beyoncé and Alicia Keys, there is a Corinne Bailey Rae. For every Ne-yo or Marques Houston, there is a Martin Luther. For every local act turned international superstar, like Dallas’ Erykah Badu or Houston’s Li’l John, there is a Montrose or Collective Hallucination (from Dallas and Houston, respectively). Within the African American community we know the wealth of talent that exists—we witness it in our churches, in our schools, in our homes, and in our neighborhoods. So it only makes sense then that we should seek to preserve black music’s cultural legacy by supporting and promoting black artists of all kinds, not just the ones whose names have already become part of our pop culture lexicon.

Next time you find yourself browsing the aisles of a music retailer, pick up a CD by an artist you’ve never heard of--maybe something by Michael Franti and Spearhead or Chocolate Genius, Inc. Pick up the new Amel Larrieux, “Morning”, or hit the used CD store for a copy of Cree Summer’s 1999 release, “Street Faerie”. For those who love hip hop, try spoken word artist and poet Saul Williams. And if you like your neo-soul with a decidedly African flair, check out Zap Mama, Les Nubians, or Jean-Louis Daulne.

The future of black music and its continued cultural impact is ours to determine. While we, as black audiences, support today’s hottest acts by purchasing their new releases, attending their live performances, and securing their spots on the charts through the request line and online polls, we cannot ignore the artists here and abroad who, through their sound, look, or vibe are pushing to redefine black music. The legacies of black music acts who’ve gone before, those who are here now, and those who are yet to come, depend on how black audiences adapt to the ever-changing landscape of black music. Let’s not relinquish those acts who do not conform to mainstream hip hop and R&B to the margins of black artistic expression. After all, black folks are the authors of not only hip hop and R&B, but jazz, blues, gospel, reggae, and yes, even rock. Experiment. Expand. Experience.